Crippen

by John Boyne

  Twenty minutes later, a minuscule order in his folder, Hawley found himself out on the street, clutching his bags angrily. He knew that what Dr Morton had said was, strictly speaking, quite true, and he hated him for it. Although he always introduced himself to people as a doctor, he was aware that he was stretching the legal description somewhat. In fact, his diplomas served only to allow him to practise as a physician’s assistant, as he had done with the older Dr Lake in Detroit. To pretend otherwise was to deceive.

  He pulled his watch from his pocket and looked at it. Almost three o’clock. He was too late for Dr Cuttle who, he knew from experience, would refuse to see him now. He considered going there anyway and pleading for a later appointment, but he knew he would be turned down, for that man was a strict observer of punctuality. He also had the ability to anger Hawley, for he was only twenty-four years old and was already a fully qualified doctor with his own surgery, which Hawley envied enormously. He had heard that the man was a distant Roosevelt cousin, and they had funded it for him.

  ‘Enough!’ he thought finally, adrift in the Manhattan grid. ‘Enough of this day!’

  He spent the afternoon back in his room, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. He felt a sensation of great loneliness. He had no friends in the city, no family. His thoughts drifted to Charlotte from time to time, but he knew that he did not miss her tremendously, and that in itself bothered him. He wondered whether he was really as cold as that implied. As for Otto, he hadn’t laid eyes on him since dispatching him to his grandparents’ home after Charlotte’s death. He had communicated with his in-laws by post for a little while but lately had grown out of the habit for he had nothing to say to them and could not pretend to have any paternal feelings. In his heart, he knew that he would never see his son again.

  Unusually for him, he decided to go out for the evening and drown his sorrows at a local music hall. He had seen the show advertised on billboards many times, for he passed by the theatre every day as he left his apartment, but he had never gone inside. The girl at the ticket booth was chewing gum and barely glanced at him as he paid the ten cents entry fee, but still he felt a little self-conscious as he sat at a table on his own, drinking beer while comedy performers and dance troupes came out on stage and went through their routines with as much enthusiasm as they could muster for the few cents they earned. The audience paid as much attention to their own conversations as they did to the stage; the rows of seats were only about half filled, while a good many patrons remained standing or sitting around the tables by the bar. An hour or more passed and several beers were consumed before Hawley began to grow tired and consider returning home. However, before he could leave, his attention was taken by the dapper, middle-aged man in the paisley waistcoat and the elaborate moustache who strode on to the stage, clapping his hands to call the audience to attention.

  ‘Ladies and geeeent-lemen,’ he announced loudly, stretching out the words like elastic, ignoring the mocking sounds coming from various sections of the theatre, the catcalls, the whistles. ‘I now have the very great pleasure, yes the very great pleasure in deeeed, of introducing to you one of the true stars of the New York musical stage. She’s been a favourite here at the Playbill Show-house for six months now. Six months, ladies and gentlemen, of refinement! Of artistry! Of elegance! Please sit back and prepare to enjoy the musical stylings of the delightful, the delicious, the deliriously delectable Bella Elmore!’

  Hawley glanced up from his drink only for a moment as a buxom girl of about seventeen marched out to muted applause—sounds which were in deliberate contrast to her enthusiastic introduction—before doing a double take and looking at her more closely. She was not unattractive of face, but she had quite broad shoulders and was a little heavy set for one so young. Her dark hair was piled up on top of her head, a few strands escaping down her neck, while her cheeks were heavily rouged. She sang three popular songs in quick succession—one of which was a little bawdy for his liking—and performed them merely adequately, taking barely any notice that most of the audience were talking their way through her routine. Hawley, however, was transfixed. He watched her, hoping that she would notice him, and as she finished her last song he caught her eye, offering her a gentle smile. She stared back at him for a moment carefully, as if unsure of his intentions, but finally she smiled back and gave him a polite nod of the head. She disappeared off the stage eventually to make way for a juggler with a waxed moustache, and Hawley looked around to see whether she might reappear in the audience but there was no sign of her. After ten minutes, sighing and disappointed, he stood up, preparing to return home alone once again.

  ‘And there was me thinking you might buy me a drink.’ A voice came from behind him and he spun around to see the young singer standing there, hands on hips, smiling at him suggestively.

  ‘I’d be honoured to,’ said Hawley, a little flustered, clicking his fingers to attract the attention of one of the waitresses.

  ‘Bottle of champagne, Cissie,’ she said, ordering for them both as she sat down. ‘And two glasses.’ Hawley smiled, mentally scanning the contents of his wallet, hoping that he had enough money on him to pay for such excess. He was not to know that, whenever this girl caught the eye of a patron, she made sure to order the most expensive drinks from the bar. The more bottles of champagne she could convince customers to buy, the more dollars she found in her pay packet at the end of the week.

  ‘Hawley Crippen,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘And you’re Miss Bella Elmore, is that right?’

  ‘Cora Turner,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Bella’s just my stage name. It has an elegant air, don’t you think? Thought of it myself, don’t you know.’ She affected an elaborate accent, as if she had been brought up in Buckingham Palace, and not as the daughter of Russian-Polish immigrants in a tenement block in the borough of Queens. Cora Turner itself was also a pseudonym; she had been born Kunigunde Mackamotski but had quickly discarded that mouthful of a name.

  ‘Very elegant indeed,’ he replied, anxious to please. ‘I enjoyed your singing very much, Miss Turner. You have a beautiful voice.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m the best singer here.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’

  She accepted the compliment without a word and lit a cigarette, holding his stare all the time. Usually the men made all the moves, but she could tell that he was a quiet one and needed some help. ‘And what do you do then, Hawley Crippen?’ she asked after a few moments’ silence.

  ‘I’m a doctor.’

  ‘A doctor, eh? Very posh.’

  ‘Not really,’ he said, laughing a little. ‘I specialize in ophthalmology. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.’

  ‘Ophthalmology?’ she asked, wrinkling up her nose and experiencing a little difficulty pronouncing the word. ‘What’s that then when it’s at home?’

  ‘The study of the eyes,’ he replied.

  ‘And you make a living off of that, do you?’ she asked, gulping down a mouthful of champagne now as Hawley sipped his carefully.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘I’ve always been told that I have beautiful eyes,’ she said, fishing for a compliment.

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied, disappointing her. ‘Might I ask how long you have been in the music-hall business?’

  ‘Three years,’ she said. ‘Ever since I turned fourteen. I intend to be one of the world’s finest opera singers. I just need to get the right voice coach, that’s all. Only, they cost money. The natural gifts are there though, they just need training.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ said Hawley. ‘And you are from New York originally?’

  She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, closing them into a quiet conspiracy of two. ‘Do you know why I came over here?’ she asked him, and he shook his head. ‘I came over here because when I was on stage I could feel your eyes burning through me.’ She reached her hand under the table and placed it softly on his knee. He felt his body grow rigid with desire and fear. ‘A
nd when I looked over towards you, I thought to myself: there’s a respectable gentleman and one I wouldn’t mind having a drink with. Much kinder looking than most of the men we get in here.’ She sat back—she’d used this line many times before—lit another cigarette and waited for him to respond.

  ‘I apologize for staring,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t. I’m on stage, you’re supposed to be looking at me. It’s better than half the fools here who just carry on talking to each other while I’m trying to perform. What are you doing here on your own anyway?’

  ‘I had a long day and felt I needed a little refreshment. I don’t normally drink alone, but tonight—’

  ‘Tonight you just felt like one, am I right?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘And where’s your wife then? She doesn’t mind you going to music-hall shows on your own?’

  Hawley bowed his head slightly. ‘My wife died three years ago,’ he said. ‘A traffic accident.’

  Cora nodded but didn’t express any sympathy; all she was doing was collecting information, filing it all away in her head for future use or exploitation. They sat staring at each other, unsure where to go from here, while she made up her mind about something in her head. ‘Are you hungry, Dr Crippen?’ she asked, deciding.

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Yes. I haven’t eaten yet and I thought about going out for a little dinner. Would you like to join me?’

  Again, Hawley could only think about the contents of his wallet, but there was something wonderfully attractive about this girl and it had been so long since he had enjoyed a pleasant conversation with a woman—with anyone, for that matter—that he could not help but agree. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘I’d be delighted to.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ she said, standing up. He rose as well, but she placed a hand on his shoulder to push him back down in his seat. ‘Let me go change,’ she said. ‘I’ll just run back to my dressing room. Won’t be five minutes. You’ll still be here when I come back?’

  ‘I’ll still be here,’ he promised.

  Pulling off her stage outfit quickly in the dressing room she shared with three other girls, Cora stared at herself in the mirror and wondered whether she needed to apply any more lipstick.

  ‘What’s got the wind into you?’ asked Lizzie Macklin, one of the dancers, unaccustomed to seeing Cora move so quickly.

  ‘I’ve got a date.’

  ‘So what’s new? You go home with a different man every night of the week.’

  Cora threw her an angry look but continued to change. ‘I don’t know,’ she said after a pause. ‘I think this one might be different. He looks like he might have some money.’

  ‘You thought that about that bloke last Saturday night. Had his way with you and all, didn’t he?’

  ‘He was wearing a silk waistcoat and had a gold watch. How was I to know he’d stolen them?’

  ‘Well, you could start by getting to know the men a bit first. Or save up for your own voice lessons, seeing as that’s all you’re after. What makes you think this one’s any different?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Cora. ‘Call it intuition. But I think this might be it. I know that sounds silly, but I really do. If he’s got a few dollars in his pocket and no wife, why, he might be the one to help me become a famous singer.’

  ‘Famous singer!’ said Lizzie. ‘Always wanting something more than what you’ve got. Why does anyone need to be famous anyway?’ she asked. ‘Can’t you just be happy here? You think you’re so much better than the rest of us, Cora Turner.’

  ‘You just watch,’ said Cora, ready now and spinning round with a smile on her face as she made for the door. ‘One of these days you’re going to be reading all about me in the papers and you’ll turn to your husband and say, “Why that’s Cora Crippen! Cora Turner as was. We used to be in the music hall together. And look what happened to her. Whoever would have thought it?” ’

  Soon afterwards, Dr Hawley Harvey and Mrs Cora Crippen packed their belongings and moved from New York City to London, England, where Cora believed her star would finally rise. In her mind had always been the idea that a man would come along, a man with money, a man with ambition, a man who would take her away from being bottom of the bill at the music halls of New York to top of the bill in the opera houses of Europe. The great actresses and singers belonged in London and Paris, she believed, not in Manhattan. And certainly not entertaining drunks every night, wandering home for ten minutes’ pleasure with every prospective husband who walked through the door. She had waited for the right man to come along. But she got Hawley Crippen.

  Unlike his new, younger wife, however, he was entirely happy to stay in America. Although he did not like his job, his savings were growing and he had considered a long-term, part-time course in a training hospital in New York which might eventually lead to his being able to use the word ‘doctor’ for real. He did not want to leave, but a showdown between the two had ensured that she would have her way.

  ‘You don’t want me to use my talents, do you?’ she screamed at him in their small room in the East Fifties of Manhattan. ‘You want to keep me caged up like an animal in here. You’re jealous of me.’

  ‘My dear, that’s simply not true,’ said Hawley quietly, hoping that his own hushed tones would encourage her to speak more quietly too. Only two evenings before, a rather large man from downstairs had banged on their door and told him that if he could not shut up the screeching of his crazy wife, then he would do it for him, an offer that Hawley was increasingly considering.

  ‘It is true,’ she screeched. ‘Look at you, you jumped-up little nothing, prancing around pretending to be a doctor when all you are is a salesman. I can be a great singer, Hawley. I could be a sensation on the London stage. New York’s too full of singers. Over there I’ll be exotic. People will pay to see me.’

  ‘But London . . .’ he whimpered. ‘It’s so far away.’

  ‘Oh good heavens, it’s almost the twentieth century! We could be there in two or three weeks’ time. Six months from that, we could be dining with Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace.’

  The arguments continued. Sometimes she chose a different tack, pointing out that they could start afresh in London and he might be able to afford to go to medical school there. ‘I’ll be earning so much money anyway,’ she said. ‘I could be one of the great stage singers and I’ll pay for your medical education. Then you can set up a practice on Harley Street and we’ll entertain every night. Think of the parties, Hawley! Think of the life we can lead.’

  When she spoke like that, tender and encouraging, he was more inclined towards the idea, but her mood could change on the turn of a coin. Sometimes he wondered how he had got into this situation in the first place. Shortly after meeting Cora he had fallen for her. She was company for him. She was kind and thoughtful and demure. He pretended to be something he wasn’t, exaggerating his wealth and position; she did the same, pretending she was nice. Soon they became lovers and he could not stand to be parted from her. Unlike his first wife, who was shy and innocent until her death, Cora knew what she wanted from a man and sought it out. Although only seventeen years of age, fourteeen years his junior, she had experience and talents between the sheets that shocked and entranced him. He was her way out of the gutter, and she was someone who listened to him and said she believed in him. They married and were both disappointed with the results.

  Although he visited the vaudeville most nights and enjoyed her performances, he could not help but feel at the back of his mind that it would take more than a decent voice coach to make his new wife into a singing star. She could hold a tune, there was no doubt about that—but then so could he when he tried; it didn’t make him Caruso. Her voice travelled only about halfway across the theatre and sounded more like a bird twittering on a windowsill than a morning chorus preparing to greet the sun. She practised her scales in their room until the unpleasant man from downstairs threatened to break both th
eir necks, but the higher notes remained discordant. Still she maintained that she had enormous talent which the whole world would soon recognize.

  In London, they found a house in South Crescent, off the Tottenham Court Road, and took the top floor at a reasonable rent. Hawley enjoyed the fact that he could walk around Bedford Square, along Montague Street and into the British Museum, where peace and quiet reigned at all times, where no one stood at the window practising broken arpeggios, and where he could sit and read books about medicine without being disturbed. He became more and more interested in the new world of pathology and forensic medicine, and read as many articles as he could about autopsies and the dissection of the human body. The pictures, crude line-drawings scattered throughout these pages, fascinated him and he wondered how a visitor might arrange to see an actual autopsy in progress. The books described the various instruments used, the tools required to remove the organs, the thin blades of the scalpels that cut through skin like hot knives through butter, the saws that opened the chest cavity, the forceps that separated the ribcage. Reading about them, thinking about them, sent a ripple of excitement through his whole body. His eyes would grow wide, his mouth dry; he became aroused. The museum had a good stack of medical journals, and whenever he sat with a pile of Scientific Americans or copies of the British Medical Journal he was brought immediately back to his childhood and youth in Ann Arbor, remembering Jezebel Crippen’s determination to turn him away from the sinful world of medicine and back on the road for Jesus. He had cut off all communication with his parents long ago and had no idea whether either of them was still alive; he almost never thought about them, and when he did it was with no emotion or human feeling whatsoever.

  Before long, their savings began to dwindle and Hawley was forced to look for work. Strolling along Shaftesbury Avenue late one afternoon in early spring, he saw a sign in a window of Munyon’s Homoeopathic Medicines looking for a ‘man for a good position with this firm’ and stepped inside, presenting himself as Doctor Hawley Harvey Crippen, late of Detroit and New York City, now happily residing in the West End of London, and available for suitable employment.